The call from California came around noon on Monday, reporting the arrival time of Simmons’s flight the following Saturday.
“Good! I’ll pick you up at the airport,” Qwilleran said. “We’ll drop your luggage at the barn, and you’ll have time to change into something for the wedding dinner.”
“Any suggestions for a wedding present?”
“Not a waffle iron!” Qwilleran winced at the roar of laughter in his ear. “They’ll be living in Thelma’s house, which is completely furnished and equipped, as you know.”
“Something else, Qwill. When I worked in Thelma’s dinner club as a security guard disguised as a friendly host, some peculiar things happened, and I jotted them down in a notebook. I don’t pretend to be a writer, and it’s just a school notebook, but I thought of wrapping it up and giving it to Janice. It’ll bring back memories.”
“Excellent idea, Simmons, but you should keep a copy for yourself.”
“Okay. I’ll take it out and have it copied.”
“No! Bring it along. I have a copier.”
Qwilleran was curious to see the notebook himself; it might have possibilities.
“Will do, Qwill! See you soon.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Chiefly Qwilleran was looking forward to having frank discussions with Simmons, on subjects avoided in a small town. Even with his close friends, Polly and Arch, he practiced self-censorship.
Qwilleran drove to Boulder House Inn with a signed copy of Short & Tall Tales for Silas Dingwall, who had contributed a hackle-raising legend titled “The Mystery of Dank Hollow.” The innkeeper was elated to see his name in print in a book—and his words verbatim. Actually, he was a practiced storyteller, gathering his guests around the craggy fireplace on a cold night and telling ghost stories that had been in his family for generations and rum-running tales that he swore were true.
Qwilleran said to Dingwall, “While I’m here, let’s discuss the wedding dinner. All expenses go on my credit card. There’ll be three couples, plus one surprise guest from California. Where will you seat us?”
“Ah! We have a glassed-in porch upstairs, for privacy and a view of the lake. And it has an oval table that can be laid with a handsome banquet cloth!”
“Sounds ideal! Let me explain the surprise guest,” Qwilleran said.
Dingwall, who enjoyed a little intrigue, said, “We’ll hide him in the office until the proper moment. We’ll give him a drink—on the house—while he’s waiting.”
Jovially, Qwilleran said, “I should tell you, Silas, he is the son of a revenue agent.”
“I don’t care who he’s the son of—if he’s your friend, he’s welcome here!”
“I’d like to order flowers for the table. Any suggestions?”
“Only this. Two low bowls of something instead of one tall arrangement. We use a fine white tablecloth that makes a handsome background for any flowers you choose.”
“I’d like Mrs. Duncan to decide on the flowers. May I use your phone?” He called the library and posed the question.
“Lilies!” she said. “Definitely lilies! They’re the most extroverted of blossoms, and without the long stems, they have a very appealing personality. And they come in all colors. It would depend greatly on what colors the bride and her attendant are wearing. Do you happen to know?”
“No, I don’t happen to know,” Qwilleran said, rather testily. More softly he added, “Would you be good enough to call Janice and Sharon MacGillivray and find out?”
“Be glad to,” she said. “Then I’ll know what to wear.”
Qwilleran turned to Dingwall. “It’s more complicated than I thought. The florist will deliver the flowers to you Saturday morning.”
All the way home from the lakeshore, Qwilleran tried to devise an idea for his Tuesday “Qwill Pen” column. It would have to be original, worthwhile, thought-provoking, entertaining, and easy to write. Nothing came to mind. That meant resorting to another book review.
“Book!” he shouted as he walked into the barn, and Koko soared from the floor to the top shelf and dislodged a slender book that Qwilleran had purchased because it was written by the author of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Sadly, neither man nor cat had enjoyed it, and it had been relegated to the shelf. Why did the bibliocat draw attention to it again? Koko never did anything without a reason.
Qwilleran packed the tote bag with cats, refreshments, and the paperback copy of The Hunting of the Snark. He said, “We all need some fresh air.”
They trooped purposefully to the gazebo, and—relaxing in his favorite lounge chair—Qwilleran promptly dozed off. After all, the events of the night had deprived him of sleep.
It was not long before he was aroused by a cacophony of weird sounds from Koko, who was staring through the screen toward the bird garden. There was movement in the shrubbery. Then the branches parted, and out stepped one of those elongated birds with snakelike neck, red wattle, scrawny body, and long, scaly legs.
Then, to compound the mystery, the bird was followed by fifteen or more small replicas, a few inches high. Their composure was definitely greater than that of the watchers in the gazebo. As the cats stared in disbelief, the large bird returned to the shrubbery, followed by the swarm of obedient clones.
On a wild hunch Qwilleran phoned the Hotel Booze and asked Gary, “What’s that Turkey Trot announced on the bulletin board in your lobby?”
“That’s the monthly meeting of the Outdoor Club. They’re having a popular speaker from somewhere in Minnesota. He’ll talk about wild turkeys. Everybody welcome. Tomorrow night at seven o’clock. Are you interested in wild turkeys?”
“Just curious.”
ELEVEN
Qwilleran arrived at the Hotel Booze early for the turkey lecture, hoping to have a burger in a dark corner of the café and then sneak into the meeting hall at the last minute. Unfortunately, his presence at any event led the general public to believe he was covering it for the newspaper or planning to write a “Qwill Pen” column.
An excited crowd could be heard gathering in the lobby, waiting for the doors of the banquet hall to open. More than a hundred seats had been set up. There was plenty of standing room, and Qwilleran slipped in at the last moment, positioning himself near the door—not for fear of fire (although it crossed his mind) but in order to make a swift getaway after the program.
There was an excited hubbub in the hall. Club members had heard tonight’s speaker before. There were cries of “Here he comes! Here’s Harry!”
An athletic-looking man of middle age jogged down the side aisle of the hall and leaped to the low platform. “Greetings, friends! Any friend of wildlife is a friend of mine.”
(Loud response)
The room darkened, and a large screen at the back of the platform filled with a portrait of a long-necked bird with beard, wattles, dewlaps, and saucer eyes.
“This odd-looking creature is the wild turkey. There were flocks of them in the woods when the Pilgrim Fathers landed here, and there are probably millions of them today. Benjamin Franklin suggested making it the national bird, but the old boy had a sense of humor, and I think he was kidding. It would hardly seem appropriate for half the population to be shooting the national bird to put food on the table.
“In many states it is still the chief game bird, with an estimated hundred thousand in some states. Ordinances regulate open seasons, hunting weapons, and even methods of luring the prey. It makes one curious to know more about this remarkable species.